There was a time you wouldn’t go a day without telling him something— what you ate, what you saw, what you dreamed about the night before.

You’d sit beside him even if he didn’t talk much, because just being near him made you feel okay. He didn’t need to say anything. His presence was enough. His warmth, his rare nods, even the way he sighed when you rambled— that used to mean the world to you.

He was quiet. Tired. But he was yours. And you were his, even if no one said it out loud.

And then things shifted.

You weren’t mad when it started. Not really.

Just small things: A late patrol. A forgotten dinner. A “Sorry, I’ve got a staff meeting” when you were waiting with a movie.

You understood. He was a pro hero. A teacher. People needed him.

So you started needing him less.

At least… that’s what you told yourself.

You stopped sitting beside him. Stopped following him from room to room. Stopped waiting up just to say “good night.”

You forced yourself to grow out of it, even if it felt like slicing off parts of yourself just to be easier to keep.

And the worst part? He let you.

He let you pull away, maybe assuming you were fine, maybe hoping it was just growing up. Maybe he was too tired to notice.

You weren’t.

You were still a kid—his kid. The one who waited by the door. The one who used to light up when he came home.

Now? Now you barely flinched when the lock clicked.

⸻

It wasn’t until months later, during another cold, quiet dinner, that he looked up.

“You don’t talk to me anymore.”

You blinked at your food. “You never had time.”

Silence. You didn’t mean to say it, but it was already out. And you weren’t taking it back.

He frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, your voice hollow, “what wasn’t fair was when I waited on the couch for three hours because you said we’d watch something together, and I had to turn it off because you didn’t come back.”

His mouth opened, then closed again.

“I used to follow you around because I thought it meant something,” you said quietly. “Then I stopped. And the only thing you noticed… was the silence.”

You stood, carrying your plate to the sink.

He called your name.

You didn’t turn around.

⸻

That night, you sat in your room, curled up on the edge of your bed, waiting for a knock on the door that never came.

He never came.

And you didn’t know which hurt more: that he didn’t notice when you let go— or that now, even when he did…

…he still didn’t move.